WeissKreuz After Glow 2 Bittersweet
by LoveyouHateyou
Summary: Someone asked for this, so here goes: can Aya really stay away from Yohji? What is it with Crawford and Schuldig? How does Omi cope with business, legal and otherwise? And can there be a truly happy end for Yohji? The past is haunting all of them...


**WeissKreuz – After Glow Continued**

Someone asked for this, so here goes: can Aya stay away from Yohji? What is it with Crawford and Schuldig? How does Omi cope with business, legal and otherwise? And can there be a truly happy end for Yohji? The past is haunting all of them...

**Comtess**, what can I say? I should hug ya for all those great revs. Thank you so much, you're a star in my writing universe.

**MM**, Yohji does not appear in Weiss Side B. And my gut feeling is that making Aya happy would in this instance result in a very sad Yohji. I thought it is kind of a good end, for at least they both survived... and Aya knows that Yohji won't forget him. This will allow both of them to come to terms, find closure, and eventually heal.

Hiya, **Darkanger**, thanks for rewarding me with another lovely review. Point taken, and thank you for giving me feedback. Well, here's a little bit on character ages as I work with them:

The information out on the web varies, but I have settled for (beginning of Kapitel):  
**Crawford, 26** (the eldest, shrewdest, and tallest of the lot)  
**Schuldig and Yohji, both 22** (and a little shorter than Craw, also both about the same height)  
**Aya, 19 going on 20** (and annoyed no end that he is just a tad shorter than Yohji)  
**Omi, 18** (with fake ID pretending to be 16 so he can attend school – what with all that killing taking its toll timewise; he also has some growing to do yet – he and Nagi are the smallest ones of the bunch. Still,the chibis - Omi and Ken here -are no cuties. They smoke, drink, gamble, not to mention clubbing in evil places, and… oh, well, see 'Rating'. Murder is NOT an approved underage activity, either, but then, in my stories they are just past the jailbait barrier.)  
**Ken, 18** (his height between Aya and Omi)  
**Nagi, 15** going on 16 (see note on Omi)

From Kapitel over Gluehen to Weiss Side B, I found that references to the timespan they cover are kept rather vague, so it appears to be everyone's guess how long it took the boys to grow up (well, sort of, at least…). So, for the purpose of this story, I assumed a timespan of roughly four years.

Well, in any case, this fanboy had to work it over once more (the story, ladies ;-) and apologises for posting too quickly (again). The story is now tidied up, I hope (boyfriend refused to beta as he is busy developing a jealous streak…)

Have fun.  
LH

**xxx**

**Disclaimer:** This story is not for profit, all rights with their current owners.  
**Warnings:** Spoilers throughout. The boys are foulmouthed. **Rating:** **M** for male/male affection and references to sex. Don't look for graphic instructions though - you will be disappointed.  
**Pairs **(I would not call them couples):Aya/Yohji (destiny interrupted... finally?), references to Omi/Ken (rather grown up here), Crawford/Schuldig (Schuldig has a thing for Yohji though – Aya is not the only one with a taste for sweet things. Yohji is this fanboy's fav man, too – boyfriend is not amused...)

**Disclaimer, warnings and rating valid for all chapters of this story.**

Let me know what you think, folks.  
Cheers.  
LH

**xxx**

**Spotlight on Schwarz**

The apartment was light and airy, the window of the spacious, sparsely furnished lounge thrown open to allow the lightspangled night to stream into the room. Crawford, in a carefully buttoned longsleeved white shirt, sat in a wheelchair, carefully positioned so he was close to the window but not exposed to the chill draft. A blanket was wrapped around his lower body, his hands resting on the wheels of his chair. He liked feeling the breath of the city on his face, and smelling its life that he could hardly see anymore.

"Why us? I never got it," Schuldig said crossly from where he perched on the windowsill. He was smoking and flailing to wave smoke and tobacco reek outside.

"Because," Crawford retorted, rather cranky about being disturbed in his reverie.

"Because," Schuldig aped, and Crawford reached out, groped for Schuldig's hair and gave it a hard pull.

"Do not push it."

"I want to push it. It's fun pushing your buttons once in a while," Schuldig snapped, trying with his free hand to pry his hair from Crawford's hard grip. Crawford did not yield, and Schuldig resigned himself to an awkwardly slouched posture.

"There you have your answer," Crawford said patronisingly. "Snuff that damn fag, you cannot afford to get sick."

"Stop talking down to me. You're only four years older."

"Almost five. And about four eternities wiser," Crawford mocked. "At least. I'm getting grey after all."

"White," Schuldig corrected, and anyone not knowing him as well as Crawford might have missed the click of concern in his voice. He tossed the cigarette butt onto the street without arguing the matter further, following the glowing tip with a weary glance.

Crawford allowed himself a thin smile. "I do not aim to win a beauty contest."

The orange glow brightened briefly, before it expired in the gutter.

"Fuck you, Brad," Schuldig all but whispered, slipping from his perch and slumping completely now so that his cheek rested on Crawford's bony shoulder.

"Later." Crawford's reply came as dry as cinder.

"Huh?" Crawford smelled of coffee, a hint of stale sweat, and pain.

"Fuck me later. I believe I am not up to it right now." Crawford's blunt admission of his failing body. Wasted muscles, shaky fingers... nightmares that came in black, drowning waves, washing away anything but the relived terror of things long believed buried and forgotten. Only to be flushed to the surface of his consciousness as – slowly but unexorably – his carefully built, trained, honed shields against the past were crumbling, one by one.

Schuldig remained quiet.

"Stop this," Crawford said uneasily. He shrugged so that Schuldig was nudged off him, and let go of his fistful of Schuldig's hair.

"What?" Schuldig said, staring at him confusedly through a tangle of mussed bangs. "I wasn't doing anything."

"That. Stop doing nothing. It's not you." Crawford carefully smoothed the soft strands out along Schuldig's neck. Bright copper, dyed a dull, fading brown – Schuldig hoped Crawford could not make out the fake colour.

"Well, maybe it is, now."

"If this were true, I would kick you out."

Schuldig sat up with a groan. "To hell with you, Brad, I just never get you, do I?"

A tiny smirk, a flash of the old Crawford, then those dark, almost sightless eyes erred about, homed in on the dull sheen that was Schuldig's white face in Crawford's vision. "That's the idea. It prevents you from getting bored. I focuses your attention. It keeps you struggling." And close.

"Struggling?" Bewildered, Schuldig stared back, suddenly no longer sure whether Crawford could not still pierce him with this flat, cold gaze, as he was wont to do. Only that he did not bother with his spectacles any longer – Crawford had always been pragmatic, mercilessly so, and no less with his own predicaments than with others. Crawford did not lie to himself.

"Yes, struggling. When they threw us together – Schwarz – I had done my homework. Grovelling, begging, ass-licking... anything to make sure I would get the team I wanted. I had my goal. I was looking for people who were still twitching, unlike those soul-dead zombies they were churning out at Rosenkreuz."

Schuldig snorted softly. "So you could be sure our only allegiance lay with you?"

"I cannot see anything wrong with this. You would have been dead without me – merely a matter of time."

"You needed us as much as we needed you."

"I never denied that. But you were not unique. I am."

Because no one else had been able to create a team as powerful and efficient as theirs from the rejects of Rosenkreuz… Crawford had not shied away; he had decided to wrestle with fate heads-on and beaten all the odds. Schuldig gave a snort, only half derisive, half acknowledging. "You never admitted it, either. Do you need me now?" He paused, just for the fraction of a second, before deciding he did not really want to wait to find out whether Crawford would answer at all, or what his response might be. "You do," he grouched, "you cannot boot me out 'cos you're going blind, and you're dying."

Crawford appeared unruffled. "Come now, you think so little of me? Seeing is not everything. And everyone must die."

Schuldig gaped, swallowed, suppressed a shudder. "Not at barely thirty," he said, and could not help the shaking of his voice.

Crawford shrugged. "I've lived enough lives."

"You bastard, still just thinking of your fucking self, aren't you?" Schuldig murmured, dragging the back of his hand over his lips as if he could wipe away the sudden taste of bitterness. Dry, dusty, like ashes filling his mouth...

"You did well out of it," Crawford noted wryly.

"Well?" Schuldig let his hand drop and his head loll forward. He could almost have laughed. Almost. Instead, he made an odd sound deep in his throat, a noise made of anger, the hysterical urge to retch, and an uncontrollable sob.

"You should not complain," Crawford said, his tone carefully flat, if slightly uncomfortable, "you stayed alive."

Alive.

Schuldig felt himself drain away. He let his mind flow, bleed out, like an ink stain on blotting paper, washed out by rain... "Yes," he said after some time, pulling his familiar half-smile back onto his thin lips. "Perhaps. I did not complain, anyway."

Crawford's hand groping through the foggy darkness surrounding him… seeking, then settling on Schuldig's hair. Almost, almost petting it. "Don't be an idiot now. You never were."

"Don't go mushy on me," Schuldig sniped, lifting both arms to bundle his hair behind his neck, letting it fall over his back, down to his shoulderblades.

"I don't. You do not need it, and I would not want to deal with your likely response."

"Such as?"

"You going frantic. Trying to break things. Hating what you would perceive as pity." Crawford paused again, a small gathering of thoughts, of breath, as if halting before stepping over a threshold into darkness... "You would… shatter."

Schuldig closed his eyes. "You bastard." He wanted nothing more than to shatter, right then.

Crawford let his hand fall away. "You are welcome. Now pull your act together," he commanded, placing his hands onto the wheels of his wheelchair. "We are not done yet. Working with Mamoru-sama" – the slightest touch of irony here, Schuldig noted irritably, and with a flash of relief – "will keep the dogs at bay, if not chained. Side B of our grand plan."

"Your plan…"

"And Mamoru-sama's. He seems to have grown rather fond of Prodigy."

"And what? Wasn't that in your plan as well, or what? The brat's well settled, good for him, no need to worry anymore. Just great. But Fuji's there, too. You knew that, didn't you?"

"Yes. And I bet he is going to meddle with Balinese again." A tiny smirk, whether of contentment or derision, Schuldig could not tell, and did not care.

"I'll teach him," he growled.

"Of course," Crawford said, the smirk melting into a fine smile.

Schuldig cringed. "Man, Brad, do you have to poke around in it?"

"I do not have much entertainment."

"I'm not some clown for your personal amusement."

"Yes you are. You want to be."

Schuldig snarled softly, yet his habitual malice lacked its customary edge. "Quit mindfucking with me, that's my job."

Crawford turned his wheelchair to the window until he could feel the breeze touch his face again. "Fine. Make us some coffee. And then I want to go to bed. I want you with me."

**xxx**

**Puzzle**

The plain wooden door to Takatori Mamoru's business suite slid shut softly behind Aya. Mellow light seemed to emanate from the very air, climatised and laced with the smell of newly dried paint, freshly impregnated carpet, and wood polish. The vagueness of a chill late autumn dusk, thick under the bowl of smog that enveloped the city, flowed through the floor-to-ceiling window that took up an entire side of the vast room, behind the imposing desk of polished black granite and glass opposite the door.

A few moments passed in utter silence, the city a distant, toy-town jumble viewed from the height of the skyscraper office, a panoramic, surreal view, gilded by a cold, hazy sunset. A silent movie in amber and smoky sepia, played out behind the soundproof, tinted and mirrored glass of the window, framed by grey vertical blinds to the left and right of this virtual screen.

Aya, was waiting, tame and tidy in a fine, black business suit, matching shirt and tie, plus sunglasses. Waiting for the young man behind the desk to set down his expensive-looking silver pen and look up from the file with papers – not exactly the daily office mail, Aya suspected, for the file bore a bright red sticker marking it as strictly conficential.

At last, the young man glanced up, bright blue eyes, a cool smile, plain and polite. He dropped the pen and brushed a rebellious strand of blond hair from his brow, then gestured at the leather chair opposite his desk. "Please, Aya-kun, make yourself comfortable."

"Thank you, Mamoru-san," Aya replied stiffly, using Omi's real name. Taking off his black sunglasses, he stepped into the room, but as he was about to sit down, the door hissed softly, and he half-turned even as Omi rose from his seat.

Aya's face grew ashen.

Omi lightly brushed out his suit of grey wool; his features remained set, composed, and blank as he regarded the two men entering the room. "Schuldig-san. Nagi-san."

Schuldig stayed by the door. In a dark grey suit and shades, with his hair still long but dyed dark brown and combed back neatly, and a black shirt and tie, he looked utterly unlike his usual self. Only the odd half-smile on his lips reminded Aya of the old Schuldig, and he felt a gush of bile rising to his throat.

Nagi though... the youth had not changed at all, it seemed. A soft, pale face, dark eyes as fathomless as a lake in autumn, soft, lush brown hair, trimmed neatly and combed into a school-boy style parting. Even his dark blue suit, complete with spotless white shirt and blue tie, looked like some kind of school uniform on him. He did not need shades to hide his gaze, for it was without expression even as it swept over Aya and met Omi's eyes. "You called us?" Nagi's voice was cool, softer than Omi's, respectful without being submissive.

Omi nodded. "I would like to treat this as a team briefing," a slight smile curved his lips, "provided everyone is happy that this is our current team."

They were distracted by a commotion in the hall, and then the door swished open once more, and Ken burst into the room. He wore a grey tracksuit and trainers; he was out of breath, his brown bangs disshevelled, eyes laughing as he tugged his jumper straight and tried to rake his hair into some sort of order. "Ah, sorry, I... well, the game was a draw, and we had to play an extension... Aya?" Hazel eyes growing round for a moment, before warming with a cautious smile.

Aya managed a stiff little bow. "Ken."

Schuldig's quirky grin deepened by just a shade. Nagi looked on calmly, and Aya tried to ignore the fact that Ken had appeared more surprised to see him than to find Schwarz here.

Omi linked his hands, let his knuckles crackle, and smiled brightly. "Good. Now we can start this properly."

**xxx**

Aya realised that he did not know them like this: Schuldig without his usual madness, cool, pragmatic, and circumspect. Nagi stringing together thought after thought in bleak, precise sentences, permeated by clear and utterly compelling logic. Ken attentive, focused, all playfulness gone, and not a trace of personal grievances…

Aya kept his own counsel throughout most of the meeting, observing, astonished, and professional enough to begin reworking his mental image of his team mates. Omi left him to it.

Darkness had seeped into the city from a clouded sky, and a long silence filled the room after Schuldig, Ken and Nagi had left, and Omi asked Aya to stay a little longer.

Shifting uncomfortably in his leather chair, Aya watched Omi tidying away papers, shut down the slim notebook computer they had used in the briefing, and carefully close the file.

"So are we all friends now?" Aya bit out. "THEM, and what's left of us? Has there ever been US?" He could not help it. He did not care whether Omi's carefully neutral expression slipped the slightest bit, those blue eyes darkening, hardening that little bit more.

"Schuldig killed your sister," Aya jabbed home, waiting, hoping for a reaction, dreading it and... yes, he thought with overwhelming bitterness, lusting for it.

Omi's lips thinned. He swallowed hard, but his body language betrayed nothing – Aya had expected, no, hoped for nervosity, anger, upset at least, anything to recall a semblance of Omi as he remembered him. Yet he saw nothing beyond the suave, polished business demeanour the young man had adopted...

But then, Aya mused, Omi always had it, only kept it hidden. He was good, so damn good... just like Yohji, with whom the chibi had worked long before Ken or Aya had become part of Weiss…

"This is not about me," Omi said quietly into the silence that hovered thickly between them. "Or you. Not about them having worked for Takatori, or you working for me now." Forcing home the connection, in case Aya should pretend to miss it. "This is not even about them being rather... unpleasant people. We are not such savoury characters either, now are we, Aya-kun?"

He smoothly retrieved the silver cigarette case from the breast pocket of his suit. He took his time selecting one of his slim, brown cigarettes and lighting it, then with a hard click put the case onto the glass table in front of him. He let his fingers trail over the glass even as he sought Aya's gaze at last. "This is about who owns... LIFE. And I will work with anyone, regardless of their motives, who is intent on bringing down this new upshot of Eszet. This is no longer a battle, Aya-kun, but a war. Schwarz have their own reasons to support me – very good reasons, I think." A soft, long stream of blue smoke obscured his eyes for a moment as he breathed out evenly, then he got up and turned to look out of the panorama window over the dark, glittering city. "You miss him."

Not a question. Aya leaned back and covered his eyes with one hand. Just a moment alone, away from those eyes he had seen reflected in the dark glass. Those intense blue eyes, no longer familiar, still scrutinising him, weighing, appraising.

"We all do," Omi said, his voice so low, it almost faded into the faint hum of the air conditioning.

Aya let his hand fall away. "You assigned this bastard... this... you let Schuldig watch over him?"

"What better to keep Mastermind occupied? He's been possessive of Yohji since they first met." Omi half-turned to dab some ash into a crystal ashtray on his desk. "You knew, did you not?"

"You... you screwed us over?"

Omi straighened and met Aya's gaze. "I had a team to lead. A job to do. Keep us from being ground down between Kritiker and Eszet. From grinding down one another. How easy do you think this was? Or is?" He sucked in a harsh breath and exhaled with deliberate slowness through his nose. "Yohji... before he joined up, I was alone. And when you came to us, you... were not exactly easy to handle."

"You never wanted me on the team."

"You never wanted to be with us. You were a Fujimiya. You joined Crashers, and still were Fujimiya, and you remained Fuji when you came to us. We... Ken, Yohji, me... we all lost part of us to become one, because we felt it would make us stronger. You refused to give up anything. So he held you where we needed you, and I needed him to keep you close."

"Under control."

"Workable," Omi shot back, rather sharp this time, with a puff of smoke. "We had to work with you, and we had to make you work with us."

Aya blinked, his hand sliding to his chest in a subconscious gesture. Beginning to rub slow, firm circles over the pressure that began building in there yet again. Yohji had merely kept him close?

Omi shook his head. "Still, it did not all go to plan."

The pain so heavy, so hard, it thudded like a stone against Aya's ribs and squashed his lungs. "How so?" Aya managed, barely audible.

"He fell for you." A faint tremor in the young voice, a tiny crack in the slick façade. "I should have known. Yohji is good. A professional. But he's got too much kindness left in him. He never lost this trait."

"A weakness," Aya breathed roughly.

"I... am not sure I would call it that," Omi said quietly. "He saw you for what you are. He still managed to... grow fond of you."

Aya stared at him. Omi looked back, and for the first time, his small face showed emotion – and Aya was glad to sit, or he would have crumbled. For he met bitterness, anger, and heat intense enough to match Schuldig's burning mind.

Yet above all, he saw hurt. Omi was hurting. So much it made his eyes swim and his lips tremble until he bit them. Hard enough to draw blood, before he shook his head and abruptly glared back at his reflection in the window. "He chose YOU, Aya. And you threw it all away." A long pause, then, "I did not want to make you suffer when I asked you to work on this assignment. I am not that vindictive. I respect your professional abilities. But it is best for all of us to let other things rest now. We have to move on. You, Ken, me... even Schwarz."

Aya absentmindedly tugged at his collar that suddenly seemed way too tight around his throat. "And..."

"Yohji," Omi said against the glass, and his tone became softer, almost mournful even though his voice remained steady. "Most of all, Yohji. He has a life now. He deserves the chance to live it. Don't you think so?"

**xxx**

**Old Stories**

Back at the trashy coffee shop opposite Yohji's café, Aya sat indoors, by the large shop window from where he could look across the busy street at Yohji... moving about easily, serving his customers, laughing, chatting... being himself.

Aya swallowed hard and pressed his brow against the cool, condensation-dampened glass. How could he ever have tried to fool himself... Yohji had lost nothing of his attraction. Not even layers of grime and blood had been able to entirely disguise it, a long time ago, when Omi had asked him to bring Yohji back onto their team for the mission at the school. **1** Yohji had been broken and drifting on drugs and booze, living off a working girl, and Aya had not wanted him back… **2**

Now that no one was watching, Aya finally gave up pretending... that he was not being scrutinised by long, searching glances of those shiny, lucid green eyes, trying to snag his gaze across the traffic. Way too lucid. Yohji's alter ego of dumb blond bitch worked only until he looked up... and right through every barricade Aya had raised around himself. Effortless. Beautiful. Yohji.

Aya stared through the faint reflexion of his face in the glass. His eyes dark hollows in a pale mask, afloat on the colourful backdrop of the city. He had almost believed his own lies... believed to be immune, cold, dead inside, no more receptive to this gentle glow that could so easily fan into a passionate blaze.

He had not realised how hungry he was for this, and it hit him like a train.

_Famished. Craving… too much, too much of everything._

Yohji had always overwhelmed him.

And then the sharp scent of cheap soap and laundry detergent washed over him, jarring him from his bitter reverie. Aya did not need to see Schuldig to know he would pull out a chair and plop down opposite him.

**xxx**

Aya scraped back his chair and rose. Schuldig got up too. Aya left the cafe; Schuldig trailed after him with long, sharp strides. Aya made to step down from the curb to cross the road, and Schuldig grabbed his arm to hold him back even as a black limousine pulled up nearby, and a young man in an impeccable grey suit and black shades got out without bothering his driver.

"I'm gonna shoot you bastard," Schuldig snapped, even as Aya tore loose and stalked off, launching himself onto the street, heedless of the traffic. Brakes screeched, tyres squealed, someone was yelling abuse at him, but Aya walked on without looking left or right, with eyes only for Yohji who straightened from his task of wiping clean the tables.

Schuldig stilled, aimed the gun with both hands, and cocked the catch.

Yohji lifted one hand and shaded his eyes to see better what was going on on the street.

Omi laid his small hand on Schuldig's free arm. Schuldig's blew a strand of hair back as he steadily adjusted his aim.

Aya walked on, as if he and Yohji were the only people in the universe.

Schuldig's finger tensed on the trigger and began to pull it back slowly.

Yohji set down the bucket and rag, and stepped towards the curb. He was shaking his head, and a concerned smile curved his lips.

"Schuldig-san," Omi said, squeezing lightly Schuldig's arm.

Schuldig bit his lip and narrowed his eyes, the nail of his trigger finger whitening, his lanky frame taut as a bow. "I got him nicely."

"Schuldig," Omi repeated, pressing a bit harder.

Aya nearly ran into an oncoming car, slapped its hood without as much as a glare at the swearing driver, and marched on.

Yohji stepped off the curb and reached out to grab Aya's hand.

"Wait," Omi ordered coolly.

"I could-"

"Wait. Please," Omi repeated, in a tone that left no room for argument. "We will watch."

Aya grasped Yohji's hand; he seemed ready to faint as they stepped back onto the pavement, and Yohji half-dragged him to one of the tables.

**xxx**

"Sit down," Yohji said, shaking his head, "man, what got into you? That must have been the most stupid thing I've seen in a long time."

Aya slumped onto the seat and tugged at his coat. "Aa," he said softly, "I guess it was." And no bullet had buried itself in his back…

"I'll get you a drink. Want food? It's on the house for you."

"No, I..." Aya groped in his pockets for cigarettes. He rarely smoked, but sometimes... times like this...

Yohji tossed him an almost full packet and a lighter. Aya nearly dropped them - Yohji's old brand.

"Here." Yohji smiled. "Stress relief. Shitty habit, huh?" He strode off and returned shortly afterwards with a small tray, set with a mug with steaming coffee, milk, sugar, and a couple of plain breadrolls. "Yo, what's your name?"

"Ra... Aya," replied Aya and began to crumble one of the rolls apart.

"Aya." Yohji frowned. "A girl's name?"

Aya said nothing, sweeping the crumbs into a neat little heap. Yohji looked puzzled, but then he smiled again and shrugged. "Whatever. You sure look pretty enough. You can sit here for as long as you like; you look like you could do with a break."

Aya nodded. "Thanks."

"Is okay." Yohji got up and resumed his work – cleaning tables, serving customers, flirting with the girls who seemed to like him – and Aya thought that Schuldig was right: Yohji truly had not changed one bit.

The black limousine had slipped away with the neverending traffic, with cars and vans and lorries shoving past in noisy waves, punctuated by the occasional shrilling of a bicycle bell, the snarl of a motorbike, or the honking of a horn.

Aya was sure the big car had not gone far… and he did no longer care because he was here now, watching Yohji.

Who returned to Aya when all of the small tables were occupied, and all of his patrons had been served drinks or food. "So," he said, sitting down opposite Aya, "how are you now? Any better? You have not eaten…" Giving Aya another warm, welcoming kind of smile, his amber skin slightly flushed over his cheekbones, a soft sheen of sweat on his forehead – the day was unusually warm for late autumn, and hot days in the city were always close to unbearable, but beyond a few beads of liquid that glistened on his neatly shaved upper lip, Yohji looked... fresh.

Appetising, Schuldig would have said, good enough to eat... lick your way up one long, naked leg, to gently bite into smooth warm skin, nipping at the inside of a firmly muscled thigh… Schuldig had not lost his habit to taunt, and he liked to be rather graphic…

"I am..."

"Stressed?"

Observant, and ever perceptive... watch out, Aya, don't trip up, you know what Omi said... you've been warned, haven't you, and how selfish can you get... "Ran," Yohji said at last, his tone hesitant, searching, as if groping in the dark, "that's your real name, right?"

Aya felt his breath hitch.

Yohji proffered the packet of cigarettes that Aya had dropped onto the table. "Smoke? No? It IS your name, isn't it?"

Aya bit his lip, found himself accepting a cigarette and light from Yohji, the green gaze almost palpable as it slid over him, trying to gauge him, seize him up...

"What were you doing watching me all day?"

"I... was just spending some time."

Yohji passed a longfingered hand absentmindedly over his hair – as if to tuck back some longer strands, only that he had kept the short, unstyled cut, soft bleach-blond bristles slipping between his fingers. "Odd..."

"What?" Aya said, gladly swathing himself into a cloud of smoke while Yohji lit his own cigarette and stuffed the packet back into his apron pocket. So he was still smoking too much. Aya wondered vaguely whether this also meant that he had kept the habit to light up whenever he got tense... and how it would feel to touch this blond stubble…

Yohji pushed out his lower lip and blew out a soft stream of smoke. "How you launched yourself into the traffic. Like you weren't quite with it. Trouble at home?"

"Aa..." Had he always been like that? Compassionate, at ease even with what had to be a complete stranger for him… even though he had guessed Aya's old name. Guessed. Aya bit his lip hard, and forbade himself even to consider any other scenario. Yes, Yohji had always been like that – too easy, in fact…

A small pause, then, "Did she kick you out?"

Aya sucked in a harsh breath. "He," he managed, barely above a whisper, and felt like delving into a icy void. "I think... he let go of me."

"Oh..." Yohji inhaled deeply, eyes sliding half-shut as for a heartbeat, he lost himself in plain, simple pleasure, before he framed Aya again with this attentive look that seemed to sizzle on Aya's skin.

And he had always been able to separate one thing from another. Pleasure and compassion, love and murder… unlike Aya, to whom complexity meant danger.

"Why do I remember your name?" Yohji wondered. "I've lost a lot of things, my head got knocked a bit too hard. Can't remember much of my past... so why you?" And then, almost af if he was talking to himself even as his green gaze caught Aya's, "Who are you to me?"

_Was. Who was I,_ Aya thought with a surge of bitterness that made the bile rise to his throat. He swallowed hard. Simple questions, plain words, bluntly spoken in this gentle, smooth voice, a velvety caress... so hard, so very hard to answer, to accept, to return. "A colleague. We used to work together." Not quite a lie, in fact, almost the truth...

"Ah..." Yohji looked pensive, his gaze sliding away to watch smoke curl up into the air that flimmered with exhaust fumes. "What kind of work?"

Aya squeezed the cigarette a little too hard as he dabbed ash into the ashtray in the middle of the table, and it tore, tobacco crumbs sprinkling over Aya's pale fingers. "Flowers," he said tightly, "we used to run a flower shop. Other end of the city, small place, not much to it."

Yohji played idly with the strings of his apron. "I see," he said, with a amiable little snort, "well, that explains a few things. She… my wife always thought I've got a thing for flowers." A thoughtful pause, long fingers wrapping loops of apronstring around themselves. "But... how did I get into hospital? Would you know that too?" Green gaze unwavering, clear, expression shifting oddly between dreamy and curious…

Aya watched the glowing tip of ash brighten and dull again in the rhythm of his breathing. "Ah... an... an assault. Someone trying to rob us... the takings at the end of the day."

Yohji scrutinised Aya through a veil of smoke. "So..."

"You got shot. They demolished the shop. We closed down after that."

"Because we were bankrupt?"

"Aa."

Another small pause. The apron strings unravelled and were smoothed out by those wonderful, skilled, passionate fingers… had he ever wondered what had caused the grooves on his skin? Florist wire…

Aya swallowed a sigh of bitter relief. Here, two explanations for the price of one…

"You paid my hospital bills?"

Aya jolted. "...iie. Another friend of ours..." _Shit,_ he thought hotly, longingly, fiercely; it was not like him to let things slip like this. Not if he really did not want them to slip.

"Another... friend?"

What was that strange undercurrent in Yohji's voice? Aya felt torn between spilling everything and hiding, walking away as he had been instructed, letting Yohji live his new life... this numb, dumb, plain existence that excluded his past... and Aya. A painless life, another chance at happiness. It seemed that he loved this woman; from what Aya knew, she very obviously adored Yohji, and she had accepted him as he was. Would she leave him if she knew?

Would he consider returning... to Aya?

Aya found that he had trouble breathing. "Aa, a friend."

"The carrothead perhaps?" Yohji enquired, almost, almost offhandedly, his gaze still friendly, almost, almost not probing.

He had lost none of his skills. None of his razor-sharp observation, crystal clear logic, dogged determination, skilful questioning. All wrapped up in the most pleasant, most alluring shades of gold and green.

"Carrot..." Aya flustered, losing his cool and fed up with playing an act. Wanting to lose it, for once, and yet...

"Yeah, my stalker, that gaijin. He's been around from day one, always watching, loitering about by that shop across the road." Yohji laughed softly. "Sort of funny, though she doesn't think so. Told me to call the police, but I think he's harmless. I watched him watching us – we do need to be a bit careful, that's true, it's not exactly a prime location here – but he just hangs about and drinks gallons of coffee. Smokes pot, quite a lot of it, but never gets stoned." Yohji paused, stretching his back before slouching comfortably again. "Weird. He'd be quite a stunner if he'd dress a bit sharper and washed out that stupid hairdye."

_Good grief,_ Aya thought, gulping down another gasp, a mixture of heat and relief surging right to where he did not need it right now. So Yohji still had this rather indiscriminate eye for pretty things... along with his old attraction to Schuldig – who had not caught on to any of this? Or had he, and this was one of his stupid mindgames? Unlikely... highly unlikely... not now, considering the state Schuldig was in...

Aya pressed a hand against his chest and rubbed slowly. He was hurting inside, a numb, constricting pressure that made breathing difficult and sometimes lanced spikes of pain through his body that drove tears to his eyes... yet he never cried. Samurai did not cry.

"So is he?" Yohji broke him from his gloomy musings.

"What?" Aya said, edgily.

"Is he your boyfriend?"

Aya gaped, torn between laughter and screaming "Uh..." And then realised that this had not been the same question at all.

"Ah... well, he's got someone to take care of," Yohji went on regardless, flicking ash onto the pavement. "The bloke he lives with looks... well, wasted I'd say. White hair, glasses sometimes, even though I think he can't see all that well. He's tall, all skin 'n bones, always dressed smartly, and spends all day in his wheelchair by the window. Carrot and he seemed quite close..."

Crawford. Of course. Only a few years Yohji's senior. The man who had managed to trip up Eszet and brazenly foiled their plans to take over the world no less. He had paid the price, in full and then some. "How would you know?" Aya managed.

"'Cos I followed carrot the other day when he quit watching us. Wanted to know what kind of dork would waste day after day doing this. Going by his clothes, he has money, and I wondered where that might come from if he doesn't have a job. Seems the other guy is keeping him."

Well, not quite the right conclusions yet, Aya thought, sucking in sharp little breaths, but damn close and still casting about... what had he not found out yet?

"So he isn't your guy then? Yet you're disappointed? He dyed his hair a while ago, before I first saw you, and you still knew who I was talking about."

_Ouch._ "No," it slipped Aya's lips, unthinkingly, and he wanted to slap himself when he saw the spark in green eyes. The hunter instinct ignited – he had seen this gleam many a time, and he knew once Yohji had caught on to the scent of his quarry, he was unlikely to loose its track...

_Prepare for the chase._

"So we were running a flowershop," Yohji peacably returned to their previous topic of conversation, without batting an eyelid... a long-lashed eyelid, Aya added in his thoughts, while drawing hard at his cigarette.

"Aa. Small outfit, nothing grand."

"And now it's gone. I hope you are doing well then... you look well," Yohji talked on lightly. "Better than a few days ago, anyway, when you stood across the road like doped. Couldn't help but thinking... you looked like shit, and I thought maybe I shouldn't have let you wander off without offering help."

_Help... yes please,_ Aya thought, _please help me..._

"That day, why didn't you tell me who you were?"

Jab. Aya felt his breath leave him with a muted oomph. _Caught, bleeding and redhanded... think on the hoof, Aya, think quickly, go on... but you don't want to think, do you, you just want to let it run its course now that he is so close, so hot on your trail, so very, very close, almost there, almost... how is this game called, now wait a minute, catch me if you can, yes, that was it, children play it, or lovestruck teenage girls..._

He desperately wanted to be caught.

And held.

Closely.

"Hey, you zoned outta me here." Yohji smiled at him, then looked across the road, shaking his head slightly. "There he is again. Like clockwork, never misses a day. Turns up half an hour before I open the shop, stays all day, and will leave half an hour after I'm done here. He'll follow me home, hang around outside for another hour or so, and then he'll go to his own place. It's not even far from where I live. Perhaps I'll just ask him over for tea, one day." He laughed again, a soft, winning sound. "Or coffee. I don't think he drinks tea. Maybe next time he's got a cold. He caught a miserable one the other week, and still he came... Once I saw him talk to some guy in one of those big stretchy cars, with tinted windows. One of them was down a bit. It was a really young bloke, blond, blue eyes when he shoved his sunshades up, sweet face, expensive watch, quite chunky."

An uncomfortably hot wave washed over Aya, leaving him dizzy and tingling. Yohji had seen Omi. Omi wearing Yohji's old watch? Why was Yohji telling him all this, in this light, chatty tone that so ill matched his curious eyes… Yohji had also seen Schuldig talking to Omi, he knew where Crawford lived, he was asking all those damn questions that made it harder and harder to maintain the rapidly thinning facade to which Aya clung, unwillingly, with half-hearted anguish.

"So if you know carrothead who's watching me, and carrothead knows this young guy, maybe you could help me out... about the flowershop. Just a thought. I've forgotten much." Yohji's smile apologetic now, tone fading to almost lost, before Yohji caught a hold over himself again and breathed a long sigh. "No? Never mind. Perhaps you're embarrassed about something. I shouldn't be this nosy, now should I."

Aya had almost forgotten Yohji's original question, and jumped as it blazed up in his mind again. "I… I didn't … couldn't… well, I wasn't myself that day," he said hastily and somwhat incongruously.

"True," Yohji agreed, without missing a beat, "Know that feeling, like not in the mood…" **3** He stabbed out his spent cigarette and reached for his cooling coffee. "You were well outta it. I saw you argue with carrothead; I thought he'd kill you. He had a gun, didn't he?" Green eyes lancing a swift glance over the rim of the mug. "And he wanted you gone."

Aya rolled up the paper menu and began to fan himself. The table had interesting patterns made up of scratches and old stains. "Okay, so he is an old flame," he lied, a flush of anger reddening his cheeks. Anger at having to lie, anger at not being able to pick up enough courage... enough selfishness to tell Yohji, to claim him back, to call everything else a day. Happy ever after.

"Ah. So... no happy end there?"

Aya swallowed a small sound somewhere between a sob and a curse; it came out like an ugly little laugh. Damn Yohji and his clever ways.

"Still," Yohji mused, lighting another cigarette, his long-fingered hands playing with the lighter for a while before he set it down on the table and regarded Aya with a strangely guarded glance. "I thought about it all... wondered at first whether you were after protection money, and arguing over territory." He shook his head. "Well, you never asked for money. Then... I tried to make sense of my past. Me, in your place, I'd have asked questions. Something like, hey, dontcha recognise me, I'm this guy who worked with you. But you told me other stuff instead."

_Lies. _Aya had told lies. A blast of despair and hope, mad, forbidden, selfish hope, rushed through him as he looked up and stared at Yohji, not daring to move, skin aglow, soul on fire, heart ablaze, his blood a fiery stream through his melting flesh. "Yohji..."

"And," Yohji said, very quietly, "you're dying to talk, aren't you?"

"I..." Aya faltered, realising way too late that Yohji had never told him, the stranger, his name…

Yohji's smile faded, his gaze deepened. Beautiful, dark, incredibly green. Aya saw his adam's apple move beneath his necklet of wooden beads as he swallowed. Hard, as though trying to gulp down a lump in his throat. And then, Yohji's voice, low, uncertain, smoky, "So tell me… who... who were you really to me?"

Filling Aya, body and mind, with want, yearning so sharp it speared him like lightning. "A memory," Aya breathed, unable to help himself, "an illusion."

_Everything._

Yohji hesitated, his gaze flickering slightly. Aya had not seen what he longed for, in those eyes he knew glazed over with lust, sparkling with mischief, or laughing with joy at some foolish joke.

Or shaded, cold with murder, seething with pain, flashing in anger.

Yet in those green depths, Aya did not find what once had belonged to Yohji like his own heartbeat: hope. Sitting here, opposite Aya at this small table, Yohji was apprehensive, not hopeful. His life had been reset for him, another chance, another try at being... at ease. Content. Normal.

_Free._

And he was fighting to hold on to it.

The sudden pain wrenching in Aya's chest made him double over, the cigarette – burned to the filter – fell from his lips, and he heard, saw, sensed Yohji jump up, the chair toppling over, and then the reassuring embrace of long arms around his shoulders.

"Hey." Yohji's smoke-flavoured breath stirred in Aya's hair, touched his damp skin, even as his hands kneaded Aya's upper arms. "Hey, liar."

Yet, if he was afraid of the past, why was he still searching?  
Because, unlike Aya, Yohji had always faced what he feared.  
In order to overcome, or squash it.

Breathless and faint, Aya felt his heart pump hard enough to burst.

"You're not okay, not at all for the looks of it. You're burning up, and your hands are cold 'n clammy. I could call an ambulance."

"Rub... rubbish," Aya managed.

"Or you could come with me until you're better and can go home." Yohji already began to hoist Aya up.

"No!" Aya blurted desperately and thought, _yes, take me home, to where I belong..._ even as he shook Yohji off, harsher than he had intended.

Yohji let his hands drop immediately, then lifted them in an apologetic gesture even as he blushed wildly. "Ah, sorry, man, I... I guess that was silly, look, I didn't mean anything by it, just trying to... to..."

_Yes, Yohji,_ it roiled in Aya's mind, _that's it, you weren't trying anything. You were just being kind, considerate, helpful, to hell with it all._ "Ne... never mind," he squeezed out, trying to regain his breath, his composure. In fairytales, the princesses fainted, their knights would scoop them up, kiss them back to life, and they would live... happy ever after. Yet he was no fairytale princess, it would be ridiculous to pass out now, and Yohji was no White Knight any longer.

"Is it that bad?" Yohji enquired, an odd expression on his face.

Why did he keep fishing?  
Was he afraid?

"I thought about it," Yohji went on, without trying again to help Aya. Playing with the lighter some more, nails whitening as he squeezed the smooth plastic with more force than needed to turn it... spin, turn, twist... click, snap, crack...

Aya grabbed hold of the back of his chair to steady himself, the palm of his other hand firmly massaging his chest... to keep his heart from bursting through his ribs, a bleeding sacrifice to... what?

"I thought it was odd that someone should be watchin' us round the clock," Yohji said flatly.

Shifting gear from subtle and wheedling to coarser means, Aya registered vaguely.

"…and I think it's gotta do with what I did in the past. Someone is afraid of me, or hates me enough to wanna get rid of me. Right? Am I right? You out to waste me? Or d'you want money after all? I'll pay for protection, if I must. I won't fuss."

_No. No-no-no-no._

Aya slumped back onto the chair. "No."

Yes, Yohji _was_ afraid, sensed how brittle his life had become, and Aya knew he wanted it: Yohji wanted this new beginning, with a wife and a chance to have a family, a home, a future.

"Ran… what have I done in my past?"

He was done with it. Done with murder and bloodshed, intrigues and secrecy. He had left the road of darkness, crossed over to the brighter side of life, where things were, if not easy, at least bearable. Yohji had reclaimed hope, but not as Aya had longed he would...

Aya lifted his gaze and met those eyes... alert, cool, probing, Yohji's smile still in place but unhappy. So very Yohji, so cool beneath all his warmth, so professional when it mattered. And always, always fighting, never prepared to just let go. Old habits die hard indeed, Aya thought, still struggling to breathe properly, still trying to keep his heart inside its bony cage by splaying his fingers on his chest and digging into fabric and skin with gloved fingertips. "Nothing," he managed, "you've done nothing."

_I did,_ he thought, _or rather I didn't..._

A long silence spread between them. Yohji sucked his lower lip between his teeth. "You didn't drink your coffee," he eventually said, setting down the lighter on the table, "it's gone cold. I'll get you another one. " He picked up the tray. "Don't wander off, you look like you'd need something hot. I'll be right back."

Aya sat back and closed his eyes, letting his head sink to his chest. _Hot, yes.._. He could have told apart Yohji's smooth, firm footfall from any other, and looked up before the blond's hand alighted on his shoulder. It did then, warm, steady, and Yohji held a mug of steaming tea out to him. Aya took it, curling both hands around it. "Tea?"

"Weak, no sugar." **4** Yohji caught the mug before it fell and Aya's elbow before it got bruised on the armrest of the chair. Reflexes lightningfast as ever – or had he expected Aya's reaction? He no longer smiled, but scrutinised Aya guardedly. "Have your drink. You'll feel better afterwards." He let go of Aya's arm and sat down on his side of the table and lit another cigarette. "Stupid habit," he said with a shrug, "didn't manage to kick it yet. So you're heartsick… did you try flowers?"

"Flow... flowers?" Aya stammered, mourning the loss of touch.

"Roses? Orchids?" **5**

They stared at one another through the thin veils of steam and smoke, curling together and mingling in a faint haze that dissolved quickly in the sweltering haze of exhaust fumes.

Aya had not known his eyes could fill up like that. He had not known he still had tears to cry. And it surprised him how much they stung, unshed behind swollen lids. "Iie," he whispered hoarsely, "I... he... has... he has moved on..."

The words fell from his lips like stones...  
...dropped into dark water.

Rings spreading on an oily smooth surface and running out into black nothingness, washing away anything that had been, that might have been, and that never would come to pass...

His heart beat too heavily.  
Another beat.  
Another stone.

_Sinking fast..._ in deep green... catlike eyes...

"I lost him." Aya clung to the mug; Yohji looked at him silently. "I lost... because I never told him... how much..." Aya dropped his gaze, set the mug down and wrapped his hands around it to stop them from shaking. "How much I loved him." He drew a heavy, slow breath. "I love him. I never stopped. But I... it's too late now, isn't it?"

Yohji sat stone still. _Sinking fast... _clouds of smoke painting shifting shadows into the light, the cigarette trembling between his fingers. From the other side of the road drifted laughter and women's chatter. Yohji briefly closed his eyes, then he stubbed the cigarette out in the small ashtray in the middle of the table. His hand so close... uncertain... "D'you know... I mean, did he love you back?"

Aya saw the narrow band of gold on Yohji's finger and swallowed hard. "I... yes. He did. He loved me."

Yohji hesitated. And then he leaned forward a little to touch Aya's wrist, just where his pulse beat beneath white skin, and when Aya looked up, Yohji had a soft smile on his lips and a sadness in his eyes that seemed unsuited to his sunny looks. "I think," he said, fingertips pressing ever so slightly into Aya's flesh, "he knows."

Aya felt his breath catch in his throat. Yohji's hand found his; hard, dry, wirescoured fingers feebly warming Aya's cold, sword-worn ones. Aya could feel tremors running through Yohji's hand.

"He'll understand. And... he'll remember."

Aya stared. "Yoh... Yohji..."

"Aya." Softly spoken, the name he should have forgotten. Quickly, before Aya could say anything else. A plea, a cool glance... strangely blurred. Watery. "Ran..."

"I..."

"He knows." Firmer now, even though Yohji did not raise his voice. "I have to go now. She'll be here any moment." Reluctantly, he let go of Aya's hand as he got up and pushed back his chair. The light had left his eyes, and Aya recognised his own swirling darkness instead.

Spoiling it. It was... wrong. Another regret. Another pain.

Aya stopped trying to hold on to his heart. "Flowers," he said, letting it fly to where it belonged as he was rising from his seat, "you sold flowers. I... I got involved with the wrong people. It was my fault."

A spark of confusion lit up Yohji's eyes – and there it was, shaky, gingerly, yet unmistakable, easily rekindled, readily seized: hope. "The robbery?"

_Letting go..._ trying to appear steady, Aya stepped back from the table. "Aa, that, and your accident, and that the shop went bankrupt. I shouldn't have tangled with those folk." And then, turning to walk away from Yohji who stood in silence, "Perhaps... one day..." _...of my heart..._

"There's nothing to forgive," Yohji cut in, and one more time, his gaze met Aya's who looked back over his shoulder and saw...

The light had returned to Yohji's eyes.

And Aya felt himself shatter.

**xxx**

He made it to the next street corner, where Schuldig dragged him out of sight of Yohji's cafe, and Omi got out of his black limousine.

Aya sank to his knees, pressed his arms against his belly, and curled up into a tight, unmoving crouch. Omi, eyes shaded by sunglasses, expression unreadable, looked down at him for a long moment, before beckoning Schuldig. "Help him into the car please, Schuldig-san."

Once Aya was shoved onto the soft leather seat, he crumbled. Omi climbed in to sit opposite him in the back. He nodded to Schuldig, who briefly lifted his hand in a casual greeting, and then stalked off to return to his job of watching over Yohji. Omi told the driver the address of Aya's hotel, and the limousine began to slide through the city traffic. Omi was looking out of the window.

"I expected this to happen," Omi said after a long silence. Against the darkened glass of the window, his face was a pale reflection that looked ahead blankly from behind the shield of his shades. It crossed Aya's pain-addled mind that he would have been waiting for some time, outside the climatised car, for his suit was the slightest bit rumpled. With his blond hair in mussed, sweat-caked disarray, he looked years younger... somewhat more familiar. Easier to talk to, perhaps because he was not scrutinising Aya with one of those cool blue gazes.

Aya buried his face in his hands.

"I think he knew already," Omi said, without changing his posture. "He did some research, followed Schuldig around. He's not lost his skills. It is unfortunate that memories can be harder to erase than we think, and easier to refresh than we would like sometimes."

"He's still not sure," Aya managed. "Not... not completely."

"Would you want him to be sure?" Omi asked, tone carefully flat.

And for the first time since he had seen his parents die and his world swept up in a wave of blood and fire, Aya began to cry.

**xxx**

He had not expected to feel Omi's arm settling around his shoulders. A light embrace, no more than a grounding touch. "Sometimes there is no next time," Omi said quietly. "When we realise we've thrown away what we should have kept... and we've run out of options." He adjusted his sunglasses. "Say... did you learn to love, Aya?"

"Aa," Aya choked out, wiping his eyes and straightening, still covering his face with one hand, the other one resting limply in his lap.

"Good," said Omi, finally facing him and taking off the shades. His eyes were too bright, red-rimmed, sore. "Then you can live." His embrace slipped, and his thin fingers alighted on the hand in Aya's lap. "There is so much work for us."

Aya welcomed the darkness that began to fill him. He let it soak into his mind because it displaced some of the pain, melted it into something numb, throbbing deep inside him where he could ignore it for a while... "Work," he murmured, letting his other hand drop and staring ahead vacantly.

"Aa, Aya-kun. And I need all the help I can get."

Aya swallowed hard. "Will he..."

"He is safe enough." Omi's fingers pressed a little firmer, before he let go of Aya's hand and leaned back in his seat. "It is all I could do. It is a chance."

Aya said nothing.

"I had a telephone call from an old acquaintance," Omi went on, reaching into his jacket for the silver cigarette case.

"I would not mind one of those," Aya said, without looking at him, and quite oblivious to the double entendre of his words.

Omi smiled thinly, lit two cigarettes and handed one to Aya. "Crawford's news were not good."

"They never are."

"Perhaps no one ever likes to listen to an oracle. I will. **6** He is dying, but you know that already." Omi paused, watching the bands of colour flitting past, the city beyond the confines of the car. "He's not yet thirty. Schuldig told me the other day." A puff of smoke, lazy, slow, almost listless. "Well, he has his connections, and he is still working. This time, we are not just taking on a school full of freaks, **7** but an entire intricate web of companies. Almost an entire industry."

Aya rubbed his eyes. "Conflicting business interests?" he sniped tiredly.

Omi shook his head. "Aya-kun..."

Aya turned away to stare bleakly out of the side window. "I apologise. What do you want me to do?"

Omi laid his hand over Aya's. "Work with me."

Aya closed his eyes. "Forever White."

And heard Omi's soft, cool reply, "Forever."

**xxx**

**Notes:**

**1** see 'Gluehen' anime series  
**2** see 'After The Rain 3 – Return To The Game'  
**3** not in the mood - a phrase with which Yohji used to tease Aya  
**4** see 'Addiction' for Aya's food habits. Yohji knows exactly how Aya takes his tea – Aya's shocked reaction is the final confirmation of Yohji's suspicions.  
**5** roses, orchids – Aya's and Yohji's respective image flowers  
**6 **listen to an oracle – Cassandra, an ancient Greek oracle, was condemned to foresee catastrophic events, dispense ample warnings, with no one ever taking heed...  
**7 **school full of freaks – see 'Gluehen' anime


End file.
